


Spun Gold

by by_no_one_more_than_me (Lady_Cleo)



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, F/M, Fantasizing, Gift Fic, Hannigram Holiday Gift Exchange, M/M, Rated for Naughty Thoughts, Therapy, do not copy to another site
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:54:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28313382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Cleo/pseuds/by_no_one_more_than_me
Summary: Will and Molly have been seeing a therapist. Unfortunately, it's Hannibal Lecter.
Relationships: Molly Graham/Will Graham, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 13
Kudos: 71
Collections: Fannibal Holiday Gift Exchange 2020





	Spun Gold

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hisvoicebrokemyheart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hisvoicebrokemyheart/gifts).



> My Christmas present to my fabulous fellow Fannibal.
> 
> [Minor note: Will is fairly stuck on his therapist (I'll let you decide if it's classic transference or if he's picking up on and returning Hannibal's own stifled attraction) and has a number of... infidelitous thoughts. If that's gonna bother you, give that back button a little tap for me and happy holidays.]

It’s 2am, three weeks to Christmas, and Will Graham should be in bed. 

The house is quiet, all the inhabitants safe and Will knows he should be asleep. Instead he's sat at the kitchen table in his usual bedtime gear - a plain threadbare tee and cotton boxers, a soft flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up thrown on over. It’s mostly psychological (the weather around here never has the good sense to dip below 80 and unless one is talking about the sand, Christmases in Sugarloaf Key are seldom white) but the faded plaid fabric is wonderfully familiar, offering the comfort of a fond embrace. 

The dim lamp overhead is the only light in the house besides the baseboard runners and Wally's Capt. America shield nightlight. There are two fingers of whiskey in the glass in his hand; there was a fist to start. And he's thinking - always a potentially dangerous pastime when one is William Shannon Graham.

In the soft light, the metal on his ring finger gives a dull gleam, as though disinterested in whether it’s noticed or not. There are some days the band is a lifeline, others when it’s a single link shackle binding him to a life he doesn’t really want.

And he might not have ever realized the dichotomy if it hadn’t been for Hannibal Lecter.

He and Molly, married three years now, had started seeing the man for couples’ therapy after a mood swing summer. Playful breakfasts and a new dog, trips to the beach and quiet lovemaking at night at odds with the stifled arguments about Wally needing a tutor, the cost of a new car, Molly flirting with the neighbors at the 4th of July bonfire and Will’s whiskies versus Molly’s wines. It was just married life, but felt like too much… while the vows holding them together started to feel like not enough.

The first session had been a conversation, questions and answers, gentle probing instead of violent dissection.

Will had been a cop in NOLA, resigning after getting stabbed breaking up a nasty brawl during Mardi Gras. Needing a change, he'd flirted with the idea of criminal profiling; twirled the card of a contact in the FBI until the corners were rounded. But something about constantly slipping into the minds and under the skins of killers made him uneasy, like sticking one's hand in a dark hole without knowing what was hiding inside. The danger, the inevitable traces of crime scene stain that would smear on his mind like until he couldn't see himself anymore - it wasn't for him. So he'd come to Florida armed with a teaching degree, a serviceable wardrobe and 2 dogs. He now has a decent undergrad following, a wife, a stepson and a pack of 5.

It’s a good life... or could be. Will knows he’s lucky, knows he should be happy... not drinking whiskey in the wee small hours, spinning his wedding ring on the tabletop like a coin, watching it form a semi-transparent orb like it might tell the future if he could just look deep enough. 

He can see the little life he's built, this strange existence in a Foster home. Sees Wally growing up, Will handing over the keys to the Ford when he gets his license, talking him through his first heartbreak, standing by him on his wedding day. Sees years by Molly's side, occasionally adventurous sex and long walks along the sand, arms embracing him as he grades papers. A quiet love within the walls, until death grants them an amicable separation.

But he also sees a darker path, the end nowhere in sight as it twists beckoningly into a heavy wood painted with faint threads of moonlight. Someone (or something) waits within - he can almost hear them breathing, patient heartbeats steady as a metronome, quiet as the tick of a second hand. And when he reaches out into that darkness, there’s always something (or someone) that he can feel start to reach back. 

There's a strange beast at the start of that path, just past the trees - a stag but not, feathered as well as furred, heavy ebon hooves and eyes like fathomless pools. And he wants to follow it, see where it leads him, find who is waiting in that whispering dark. If they might love him for all that he is, all that he's never dared be.

He has an inexplicable certainty they might.

And lately those shadowed susurrations have been Hannibal’s name and all that they could be together. Therapy has been a tightrope over a minefield ever since.

Usually he and Molly end up side by side on the ridiculous powder blue monstrosity by the wall, and he knows Hannibal moves a chair to be able to accommodate them there. From what little Molly’s told him about her individual sessions, Hannibal takes Will’s place on the sofa, allowing her the ease of a side-by-side chat. 

When it’s Will alone, they sit facing each other in these out-of-time grey leather chairs and the dark erotic side of Will’s imagination often repurposes the decor.

Sometimes he’s bound to that tall ladder by the mezzanine, facing out so Hannibal can devour him or facing the wall while whips and teeth are applied to his stripped skin. Sometimes it’s handcuffs or silk ropes or those expensive ties Hannibal is always wearing, but Will admits he would hold the position with a mere word from the Doctor, just to prove he could be good for him. To offer the rare gift of his obedience.

The possibilities for that wide classic therapy couch (a Freudian cliché perhaps, but sometimes things are classics for a reason) make his mouth water. Bent over the propped side, balanced on his toes while he presents like a bitch in heat; fucked facedown on the leather so the scent of the polish clouds his mind and his teeth leave indents in the supple hide; laying Hannibal out and riding him with a tender laziness, head thrown back while that imminently capable guiding hand cups his ass for stability.

There are times he imagines them in those grey chairs, the leather radiating back his body heat like a cradling touch. Hannibal sinking to his knees and swallowing Will down, not a single extraneous stitch of clothing touched except what must be for access. Sometimes he sees himself walking in to the session, waiting until Hannibal takes his seat before sauntering over (in his vision, Will always _saunters_ ) pinning Hannibal with a look as he straddles him, settling comfortably in his lap and draping his arms about those broad shoulders. He thinks they might kiss.

The desk features the most. He wants to be bent over it, gripping the far edge or gouging the expensive imported wood with his scrabbling nails as Hannibal pounds him from behind - Will a snarling whining picture of animalistic submission. He wants to be kept under it, blowing Hannibal in the shielding darkness while he finishes patient notes with only the occasional imperfection in the notation. (Sometimes his knees have a pleasant phantom ache when he wakes up.) He wants Hannibal to swipe every meticulously placed article off it with a sweep of his arm like a scene in a movie and lay Will across it like a lamb on an altar, to be worshipped and sacrificed and devoured. 

He thinks he’d like that. If anyone could get him to accept adoring appreciation of his ‘unique aesthetic’ it would undoubtedly be Hannibal Lecter. Even if it proves too much, something deep in what might be classified as his soul wants to try... if for no other reason than Hannibal wanted.

He wants. _God_ , but he wants. And he needs... but are they the same? 

He loves Molly the way he loves sunsets and boats and his flannel shirts, comfortable and warm and wonderful, and if he let himself really be here he knows he could be happy. Yet ever since the first moment their eyes met and those beautiful lips formed his name and that darkness in his soul saw itself in the mirror of Hannibal’s, he has wanted Hannibal with a quiet desperation that burns to be let loose - to find out if the Doctor’s sharp yet refined angles are actually a perfect fit for all the broken lines and jagged edges Will hides inside a person suit.

Either way he can't keep enduring this preternatural tug of war while his mind grinds its gears like a clockwork toy wound far too tight.

For his own sanity, for better or worse, there’s a choice to be made. 

Eventually he stands, the dregs of his whiskey tossed back with a shocking lack of care considering the vintage, and snaps the light off as he heads for the stairs. 

In a move that might have felt symbolic had he still been there to witness it, the ring Will had set reeling with a final spin broke free after a collision with his empty glass, rolled off the table and landed on the rag rug with a muted and unremarkable thud.

**Author's Note:**

> So that was... the thing. Hope you liked it. Sincere hopes my giftee liked it.
> 
> Comments and kudos make wonderful gifts. Happy Hannigram Holidays to all.


End file.
